The Thought Process of A 152 Year Old Man
by Neversaid-I-Madesense
Summary: A series of shorts, most of which delve into the mind of an elderly, youthful man, whom we are all familiar with.
1. Heh, I Lost It For a Minute There

How many people...

How many—

_Don't think about it._

Every once in awhile, despite having lived 150+ years, there were still people who did anything from big to small that absolutely amazed him. There were still the needlepoint-tongued jokesters at the nicer diners that could split his sides into stitches, and let the fact that he could shoot people with his literal left arm alone slip from his mind. There were the kids, new faces every generation, but with the exact same ideas in their young heads (just have fun!) to playwrestle with, the single mothers whose hearts were easy to win over if he could get their childrens' eyes shining for him. Vash had lost count of how many towns inwhich he had become known as the 'resident babysitter,' the one guy who could always be counted on to lend a hand for difficult labor.

July wasn't a bad place, no, _lost_ was not a word to describe its inhabitants **DON'T THINK ABOU—**

It was too bad that, eventually, he had to keep moving. Valdour wasn't the only city to practically hold a parade as he left, trailing his steps (especially the little ones, oh! He wished he could have his own...) and calling his name. The sandsteamer, looming overhead and making the children groan as much as swoon. Humpback-class, wasn't it?

There was one more thing that never changed with time... the cherishing of every old and new memory, face, or simple phrase. Names. Titles. Chapel. Amelia, Millie, Kni—don't—

_(Blockitoutdoitnow.)_

He fiddles with a button on his coat, a thought occurs to him; How long have I been sitting here, again? It's not often he loses track of himself. He's been alive too long, that's all it is, and self-control was something perfected over time, after all.

So why did he cry every time some—

There's a lady standing next to him, he realizes it's Meryl. Merylmerylmeryl, pixie Derringer Meryl, and she's grinning at him with teeth like blinding white sunbeams, asking him, "Well, where's the next destination, Stampede?" As if he hadn't been motionless and idle like an idiot for who-knows-how-long.

And suddenly it became easier not to think about it.

* * *

**A/N: **_Vash the Stampede is a very old, complex... and deeply traumatized individual. But he's so good at hiding it, you'll never tell. He's also quickly becoming my #1 favorite anime/manga character, ever._

_Vash+Meryl/Millie+Wolfwood, forever. c:_  
_OH SHIT, DON'T EVEN MENTION NICHOLAS, FUUU, I'M STILL SMARTING FROM HIS FATE._  
_Also Livio is a badass._

_Your opinions. Give them to meeeee. Please._


	2. Thinking Too Hard Again, Vash?

Vash couldn't help eventually developing a bit of a fernweh. That was just what happened, he figured, when one never stayed in one place for long. He learned to actually _like_ it, somewhat.

He also found, that, if the dunes were stared at long enough, they almost started to look a bit... elysian, instead of the huge allocations of dust particles and grains of sand they really were, whose wind devils could suffocate even _his_ hardy, more-than-human lungs, if he was stupid enough to get caught in one... which, he sometimes was. His tiny smirk was laced with some self-deprecation as he remembered the irritated rantings of a small woman, her distinct no-nonsense tones etched into his memory, probably for more decades than she would expect (if she knew). But, she didn't; and that was more his fault than anything. Why did he lead her on in the first place? Why did he remain so naïve and trusting?

Was that even what it _was_? Knives was aware of it, but then, that was Knives.

"_Latching onto your little pets to this very morn, Brother?"_

Pets. Companions, in the worse sense. _We're more than them. You realize why you drag them around, don't you, Vash? __**Amusement**__, don't deny—_

If he confessed, Millie would congratulate him, _"I knew it all along, Mr. Stampede!"_

Meryl—he had a pretty good feeling she was already perfectly fine with the idea, despite her... er, complaints, she was just waiting for _him_. If things kept going the way they were (Augusta, Nicholas' _God_, Augusta...), she'd never get an answer.

In the back of his mind somewhere, he knew what Rem would call it.

"'Ey, Cactus Cranium, you gonna stand there brooding all sun-blaze?" Vash's trademark cliché smile snapped onto his face from reflex as he was snapped out of his contemplations. He caught the unease that flickered across Wolfwood's knitting brow at the sudden change, like an unexpected breeze which was gone as soon as it had come. Instinct told the younger—_much_ younger—man whenever an action was amiss, and Vash felt dismayed how often he could see the reaction in his best friend.

He didn't blame the priest. He terrified himself, too.

"Let's get movin'," Wolfwood, being the tausendsassa he was, took every bit of it in stride, commenting about his niggling thought of how he might've spotted a familiar face earlier that day, too. Those girls were sure hard to shake, weren't they?

_Yeah, they were,_ the pseudo-treant agreed quietly with an outward nod. He was honestly beginning to believe they'd follow him forev—not forever, but for too long, anyway. That didn't stop the delight twisting inside him.

Wanderlust waited for none, especially not in No-Man's Land. It seemed to favor him, though, and maybe it would show preference for his loved ones, too. Not that it ever had _before_, but that was just his problem, wasn't it? Excessive hoping.

That was the thing that made it worthwhile.

"First one to the next town over doesn't have to pay for food!" He blurted, and Wolf jumped at the shout—then blinked as the crazy blonde wacko went barreling past him, becoming a dot on the horizon.

Well, then. Time to show what exactly a motorcycle was used for.

* * *

**A/N:** _fernweh: (n.) an ache for distant places; the craving for travel. Similar to wanderlust._

_tausendsassa: (n.) jack-of-all-trades; a multi-talented person. Fun fact, I got these two weirdly cool terms from the "Otherwordly" blog on Tumblr._

_pseudo-treant: I made this up. A treant is a fictional organism having many characteristics of a tree, but with human-like mobility and facial features, and since Vash is a plant (but **not** a tree, obviously), I figured it might fit.**  
**_

_The title is a play on what Rem said to Vash in his vision, "You'll be an old man in no time!"  
_


	3. No World For a Good Father

He knew he was coming across as rude. It was like someone—Wolfwood, perhaps, just for the sake of messing with him—had taken a gigantic swab of glue to his eyes, and practically fused them there.

"My eyes are up here, buddy."

Vash winced. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he corrected himself immediately (oh, sure, he hadn't been able to do that a second ago!), "You're... uh, assets, aren't what I was..."

The middle-aged woman snorted ungracefully, "Well, duh, I _know_ that. I ain't _got_ no 'assets.'" She waved a hand around her chest area, and then lower, "No ass, neither!"

A grin worked itself along his mouth at her sheer gall, "I'm sorry, anyway. It's not even a bit of my business, but please, let me ask: where did you _get_ those?"

"My scars?" It was rhetorical. "You ever seen a lady use a gun?"

Fifty, actually. _Guns_, that was. "Yes."

Her teeth, a little cracked, yet a little perfect somehow, kind of like her crude smile and the wildness in her eye—the one that wasn't partially blind—came out to play in a big bare of teeth that was probably supposed to intimidate him. What a silly idea. Did she even know who he—oh, wait, she didn't. Oops.

The marks trailed her arms, he could recognize interrogation torture when he saw it. He wondered if she had any clue how much they resembled a basic map of eastern Gunsmoke. _Morbid,_ he scolded himself.

"I got 'em defendin' this goddamn town. If it weren't for me, it wouldn't be standin'." Vash got the impression that perhaps she was taking a bit much of the credit than she was due, but she was obviously so proud. The lift in her chin, the glow in her face, he couldn't bear the thought of bursting her bubble. The priest, he pointed out how Vash treated people sometimes. Like they were little kids who didn't know any better.

It always ended with Wolf getting the strangest look, because... shit. They kind of _were_ in comparison to a geezer like Vash the Stampede. The elders and small children, out of them all. They had routines and general ways of going about things. It was the teenagers, the young ones, who were unpredictable.

"That's quite an achievement. I bet you'd never give up those scars for the world, huh?" Hook.

"Hell, no! If those bastards ever step foot 'ere again, they'll be gettin' a load of it!"

Line. "Who?"

"Georgio the Goldengloves, or whatever-the-hell. Got a whole bunch of cronies followin' him everywhere. It was them who first dared to cross this place, and now the rumors are startin' up again!" Angry, calloused hands smacked against the bar table, Vash registered a flash of dark fabric and sunglasses flit through the crowd nearby.

Sink_-errrrr_.

"What? Why would they come back? You'd think they'd learn their lesson!" Absently, he mused that no one would get that joke. There were no oceans or lakes or even rivers and streams on this planet. Nothing to fish in. The portion of the human race in Gunsmoke had forgotten one of its traditional and biggest sources of agriculture, because it simply wasn't possible any longer. Depressing. He should set up a school someday, when all this was done and over with... (if he survived.)

"Yeah!" Bragging hardened to seriousness, and the fingers which had been so busy with gesticulation before were run through graying, thinning auburn hair, "Yeah."

"I can handle a weapon pretty well, myself," Vash began to offer, "I can help if—"

"That's nice of ya to say," she cut him off, hazel eyes growing sharper, "But what we _need_ is experienced gunwork," she heaved a sigh that he knew wasn't meant to come out so tiredly, "You don't even got any stubble on your chin, yet. Don't get yourself killed."

He tilted his head at her.

She chuckled. "Cheeky little shit."

A while later, he had enough information to have the town safe and secure in less than a week. The woman (they still hadn't revealed any names, she was wiser than she let on) playfully ruffled his unruly hair in farewell ("Hey! I work hard to make it that way!" "Whatever, brat."), and he was out the door when Wolfwood sidled up next to him. "So?"

"We'll need Millie's stungun—aww, don't look at me at way! You know she's not helpless."

"I still don't like having her out there in the crossfire, when she _should_ be sharing food with me and telling me not to smoke so much," Something in his face glazed over, and Vash learned better many years ago than to interrupt that kind of internal moment. Then Nicholas' thoughts visibly shifted. "Uh... back there."

"Hmm?"

"You..."

"I _am _kind of old."

"...It's creepy."

"You like me, anyway."

"_I_ don't even notice half the time when you're playing me, do I?"

That gave the Stampede pause, "It's not as if I _try_ when I'm around my friends." It wasn't like people didn't do stupid things, stupid, _stupid_ things that made the deepest, darkest, most hidden chamber of Vash's heart start to ponder his mad brother's ideals. It wasn't like he didn't manipulate them to _protect_ them from themselves.

Times like these Vash almost became suspicious Wolfwood was also less mortal than he seemed; those dark blue irises seared into his skull, it felt like.

"It happens anyway, doesn't it?"

Vash raised his gaze and observed the clear sky, the sky that never held any hint of precipitation, "I've tried raising kids before. Very briefly, I was forced to give up on the idea and hand them off to people they'd be better off with. I was a fool to try. I guess that's where it comes from." There was that old, old need rising in him, why wouldn't it ever _rain_? Moisture levels weren't high enough, that was why. Children of the pebble, what was the point if there was no water to skip them over? He'd have to raindance, then, by himself. Meryl would gape at him, _"What in the world are you even doing? You look like an idiot!"_

"Where what comes from?"

"It's like you're all my kids. I can't let my kids hurt themselves."

* * *

**A/N:** _I just made up a random villain, smack me now. PS, Vash's perspective is addictive to write in._


	4. This is the Way I Pray

Religion was a thing sparse and scattered for Gunsmoke. Vash had never quite been sure what to think of it, himself. It wasn't a subject Rem much touched upon personally, for parts of it conflicted with her free, live-and-let-live spirituality, which wasn't anything specific besides the barest essentials: peace, love, patience, understanding and tolerance. That was alright with Vash. In the end, he was a walking, talking, breathing plant with goofy hair, he preferred humanity over his brother's—lifestyle, he was _alive_, and, even with every reason for his friends to bolt for the hills, he was loved. What more could he possibly ask for?

Some details remained fixer-uppers. Whose path didn't contain two or six of those?

Nick's crosspunisher, though.

It warranted queries. If Wolf wasn't so touchy about the thing, Vash would investigate it hands-on and up close. Try to find the characteristic it _apparently_ carried that attracted followers, what drove those tightly knit (and, evidently, violence prone) devouts to _kill_ in its name and image. A mere cross symbol. An _object_. The Bible hardly existed anymore, scraps and pieces were uncovered every few years, and none were complete. Everything else was just stuff to fill in the blanks. The Eye of Michael, frauds! A bunch of crazies! Mockeries of the respectable nuns and missionaries Vash recalled reading about in Rem's knowledge textbooks.

He'd yet to discover anything that stroke any chord in him. The lack of logic threatened to fry his photosynthetic brain. Did Meryl feel this way, when he made a fool of himself?

One day, during one of said maddening bouts of _why_, and _how_, and _goddamn it, why?_ an idea occured to him.

What reason did _he_ have to glance at the second sun, to help him concentrate?

You see, the orbital star was just that... a star, happening to be smaller and further away than its parent Sun, and thus, easier on the eyes to look at. It didn't harm much (unless you were a moron, staring at the still _giant ball_ of flaming _gasses_ for, like, an _hour_). It was the closest act to prayer the majority of the populace possessed.

Vash did it, too. He hadn't noticed it for the longest while. Habit he picked up from humans. Even bandits, rogues, criminals, it was a universal thing—but then, universal may be too broad.

It didn't reinforce any sort of belief system. It was just _there_. A Smokian chip of gold went, _"The bright babe of the sky clears all minds."_ He did not take it very seriously the first twenty or so times he heard it. Then, someone pointed a gun at his head. Old news, or so he thought. Turned out that time was different, and he'd rather not retell it (he never wanted to repeat a lot of things).

He was facing the two celestial bodies throughout it. Something, _something_ about the ever-burning, light-providing, mere fixed _luminous points_ in the sky, filled him with a _feeling_, and—nonsensical, ignorant, what would R—

"_Believe in what gives you strength, Vash."_

He got it.

Whadaya know.

"You're bowing with your palms together?" Wolfwood spoke. Vash was pulled back into reality, "Look at those crosses. You're in the wrong faith, aren't you?" There was no accusation. The man, like so many others, was desperately curious about the one legend families told their children to scare them to bed at night (in turn, making Vash lose sleep). Wolfwood, suns bless him, was much more respectful and considerate than the rest.

Vash didn't make eye contact. "This way, I can put more feeling into it. Is that so wrong?"

Thoughtful silence, "He was right, you know." _Hoppered the Gauntlet. Can you see me from where you are? There is no blood on my chin. This 'shitty world' still has sunlight._ "You just _don't_ know how to treat the bad guys." Puff of smoke, _How can his lungs stand it?_ "If you do this for each and every one of them... there'll be _no end_ to it."

People never received a double dollar for each instance a jarring fact was thrown in their face, and independent plants didn't, either. He straightened.

"Well, then. Why did you come here with me?" _Don't look away from the graves, don't. You'll lose it._

Scoff. "Stupid question. Because I'm a _priest_, of course."

Aaaand he lost it, but in a better way than he'd expected. The snickers could not be smothered, he slapped his knee just to calm himself. _Oh, is that what you are? Stubborn child._ The atmosphere was broken, _Thank your God, Nicholas D. Wolfwood._

"Don't laugh at me!" The teasing went on for several minutes, cooling when Midvalley's horn captured Nick's attention. Seeing it coming, before any unwanted topics could be breached, Vash spoke, "...Wind's picking up."

The reply was slow, like Wolf hadn't registered the words, "Yeah."

Forcing the layers and layers to fall away, Vash took to his defense mechanism (silliness) like a grateful fish to water, lack of H20 notwithstanding, "Well... we'd better head back and get to work."

Cogs working in the swarthy man's head, an outraged expression jerked around to bark, "_Huh_?"

Oh, riiiight. Wolfwood wasn't familiar with the routine. You break it, you fix it. A Commandment, as far as Vash was concerned (bringing into account all the damage he caused regularly, oh dear).

Best educate the poor fellow!

* * *

**A/N:** _This one was partially inspired by the song, "Prayer," by Disturbed. The title was taken out of a line from it, 'Let me enlighten you, this is the way I pray.' Beware if you're gonna look it up on, say, YouTube or somesuch; Disturbed is a hard rock band, in case that's not what you're into. Myself, it's my favorite music group, but that's just me. Those among you who read the manga, do you recognize this as the ending pages in **Volume Five** of **Maximum**? I hope so! ;_; Thanks for reading. :)_


	5. Modern Literature

They were writing _books_ about him, now.

The initial handfuls were, admittedly, poorly executed. In haste to be the first to document the likes of the Humanoid Typhoon, various scholars, historians, random wannabe writers trying their luck, and even—oh, _heck—_trashy romance novelists, made a nosedive for whatever information they could obtain (not a lot)... and just kind of rolled with it.

Oversized, melodramatic block letters glared up at him, strangely out-of-place in his hands, hands that were inaccurately described numerous times within its pages, _A Collection of Stampeding Tales._

At the very least, the title was vaguely interesting.

These days, he reread it for laughs when there wasn't anything less mind-numbing to do (still, half the time he chose such options over _that_). The so-called love interests were ludicrous, the foes over-exaggerated, allies, disturbingly loyal to their 'Bossman Stampede.' Vash thought, that if ever he got his own cult—which felt increasingly likely, the legends of him were inflating badly over the years—he'd convince them to disband just as quickly as they'd formed. Gave him shivers, some of the things these authors came up with. He must give to the fact, he muttered, that some people were incredibly... creative.

"_Flames billowed up into the dark night, like a fiery hell unleashed onto the world, "These mortals..." Grumbled Vash the Stampede, intensely eying the world below, "...they look like mere ants from here." Never mind the building he stood upon was crumbling beneath his feet, it wasn't even worth worrying about. He grinned menacingly, sharp fangs glinting. What more havoc could he cause?"_

Worthy of suspicion? Were they starting to catch on that he wasn't human? Of course not. This was a crazy piece of writing by an over-imaginative nutcase who happened to know how to write. Goodness gracious.

Rushed, cringe-inducing, nauseatingly _dumb_, and worse yet, Knives would probably like it. No, it was written by a human. Forget that.

"Mister Vash?" He jumped, "What are you doing over here, so far away from everyone else? Meryl wanted—what was that?" The tall, brown-haired woman craned her neck in an attempt to inspect, but Vash wouldn't dare allow it, hiding the atrocity somewhere in his duster.

"Nothing, Big Girl!" He chuckled disarmingly. _Not a single paragraph someone like you ought to skim._ "Really, it's crass." _Wolfwood would despise it; he actually __**appreciates**__ the written word. He'd __**maim**__ me, on top of that, for letting you look at it!_

She responded with confusion, "Then, why are you reading it?"

He pulled a face. "Uh... curiousness?" He tried, then skillfully digressed, "Wait, what were you saying before?"

Millie was, both fortunately and unfortunately (guiltily), a bit easy to predict, "Oh! Miss Meryl made food for us all at the campsite; are you hungry, Mister Vash?" Her eyes, steel blue and guileless, it stabbed him right in the chest to trick her as often as he did, even though he was doing it for her own welfare.

"Starvin'!" He enthused. Wolfwood and Meryl were keen enough to recognize the insincerity for what it was, but, they weren't there at the moment.

"Let's go back, then." Ah, Millie. Millie, Millie, poor Mills...

Hopping to his feet to follow the optimistic lady (he envied her, truthfully. He wished _his_ naivety was as genuine), he played with the idea of creating his own novel in the—blank—future, based off his own immortal life, switching around the names and obvious details a bit... if only for the chance to rewrite everything the way they should've been. Why not? If Knives and his minions didn't tear him apart, he had all the time in the world, and _that_ was no surplus dramatization.

Unluckily.

"Do you think the Short Girl brought along some donuts?"

* * *

_**A/N:** I'm one of aforementioned nutcases. Jussayin'._


	6. A Small Black Cat

Kuroneko.

Well.

There was a name, surefire.

Millie gave the impression of coming from a humble home, which Vash had no doubts she had. It was just... and he hated to say it, learning her family was wealthy enough to enroll her in old Earth language classes was a surprise. Obviously, the lady'd had a decent education, or else she wouldn't have come within ten feet of Bernardelli Insurance. He felt guilty for it, writing her off as some semi-bumpkin with a good heart. He hadn't meant it in disdain, and hardly even realized he was doing it.

It thrummed in his chest a bit painfully, now, though. He kept doing this, making assumptions, constantly reminding himself that because he'd seen the same sort of person dozens of times, didn't meant every detail was the same.

Kuroneko, "black cat." Fitting. He deigned to make it up to her somehow, later, despite the fact she had no idea what he could've possibly done to offend her, and would most likely shrug it off and forget all about it within the next few minutes, anyway, if he told her.

Why Japanese in particular? Why not? It was exotic, and many people liked to flaunt their schooling in subtle ways (Millie would never do that, she probably simply thought it was creative).

Meryl. Meryl did not talk about that sort of thing—her origins, often boasting about the college she attended but not once revealing its name—Vash sometimes had to bite his tongue not to ask. Ah, Meryl.


End file.
